


in burning red

by sagexbrush



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle Scars, F/M, Fluffy, Hugs, Post Battle, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not sure what to do (he’s Harry Potter the one who defeated Lord Voldemort, and yet can’t talk to his ex-girlfriend) and rather wishes that Hermione was here to give him some form of guidance. She had always been good at this sort of thing. <br/>.<br/>(Or Harry sees Ginny after the battle.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in burning red

**Author's Note:**

> well this was a long time coming.  
> i hope you enjoy it:)

            Her hair is a red smudge against the bleak landscape, against all the dull grey, black, brown of the wreckage of the castle. Even the survivors (not the winners, _survivors_ ) are just blank shades. There’s things to be done, people to talk to, memorials to be given and tears to be shed, but she’s standing in front of him and her hair is so very _red_.

            Quite a few people stayed overnight, their eyes are shadowed and their faces tearstained, but they’re staring at him staring at her. She’s currently engaged in conversation with Luna, and her face is just as tear stained as the rest, her eyes shadowed, her hands shaking slightly.

            He takes a few hesitant steps towards her, and he’s defeated the Dark Lord but he’s never been this _nervous_ before, like a billion butterflies are fluttering in his stomach. She has ever reason to hate him now, Fred is _dead_ , her families been torn apart and stitched back together, he’s broken her heart and died and come back and everything is so _complicated_.

            Like she can sense him thinking about her, she turns, her hair swishing, her eyes brown fire, and suddenly she’s looking at him. He remembers his last few moments (or what he thought was his last few moments) when the memory of her had come so strongly to him, when it seemed like he was going to break her heart _again_.

            She looks broken, he realizes, like one last good blow would send her shattering to the floor. Ginny Weasley has never looked fragile to him before, but now she does, like she’s a beaten up old book that needs lots of Spellotape to even _open_ again.

            The people who are merely lingering ghosts on the battlefield are watching him, watching her, and even though he _knows_ they want to talk to him (everyone wants to talk to him now, all they _do_ is talk) no one seems able to break the silent communication pulsing in the air.

            He’s not sure what to do (he’s _Harry Potter_ the one who defeated Lord Voldemort, and yet can’t talk to his ex-girlfriend) and rather wishes that Hermione was here to give him some form of guidance. She had always been good at this sort of thing.

            “Ginny,” he finally says, his voice quiet. Nobody is saying anything, silent spectators – but it’s all it takes.

            For a moment he thinks she’s going to cry. Her face certainly crinkles up like she might, and then her brows furrow and she’s marching over to him, her red hair streaming behind her and her face blazing.

            “Harry,” she snarls, and her voice is hard and cold and he thinks _oh dear god, she does hate me now_ before she’s standing before him, the memory of a dozen sunlit days flickering between them.

            He isn’t sure what to do, so he just sort of stands there, practically melting under her glare. Why did women always get so mad? Was it because of Fred? Did she –

            Any thoughts he had are broken off when she lunges forward and slaps him across the face. It’s a stinging blow, one that he _certainly_ isn’t expecting (does she really hate him that much?) and it rather makes his entire person ache, considering he feels like he’s probably made of bruises at this point.

            “What?” he stammers, and there is a sense of unrest, shuffling footsteps, people are unsure what to do. Those who attended Hogwarts knew the pair dated, but the other’s are muttering about _attacking the chosen one_ , and he is for a moment worried that someone might step in before Ginny’s throwing her arms around him and all he can see is _red red red_.

            “You bloody _idiot_!” she shrieks loudly, her voice ringing off the silent aftermath, “What the hell were you thinking, walking into the forest like that?”

            This shocks him more than the slap or the hug, mostly because he’s expecting her to _blame_ him, like she rightly should, because it’s his fault, all of this. All of the washed out colors and faded faces, it _his_ fault. If only he had figured out this sooner, if only he didn’t screw up so badly, if only if only if only.

            “Aren’t you angry?” he finally asks, which is a mistake, because she gives another sharp blow to the top of his head.

            “Of _course_ I am!” her voice is teetering on tears now, “I thought you were _dead_.”

            He gingerly wraps his arms around her, worried that if he holds her too close that she’ll fall away like all the other’s he’s loved like this. She smells like flowers and ash and her warmth feels like home.

            “I’m sorry,” he finally mutters, pressing his face into her hair. Her own face is resting against the crook of his neck, and he can feel her breathing as it speeds up. “I’m so sorry. About everything. About being dead, about Fred – “

            “You’re blaming yourself, aren’t you?” she whispers, her voice muffled. Her nods against her, and she takes a deep shuddering breath.

            “It is my fault,” he points out gently.

            “Fred chose to fight,” she says more firmly, her voice clogged with tears, “We all did. It’s not your fault if we chose it Harry.”

            He pulls back from her slightly, suddenly aware of how _bright_ she was, how dull everything else was, how she seems to bleed into his vision and stay there.

            He knows this isn’t over, knows that he’s still cracked and bleeding in every available surface, knows that she’s still fragile like glass and they’re not quite _themselves_. Even her words barely pass through his mind, and he suspects that they won’t sink in for a while.

            He’s going to keep on blaming himself, and she’s going to keep reminding him to hold on, and maybe – just _maybe_ – they were going to be oka


End file.
